


5 times Spot didn't let anyone see him cry and 1 time he did

by Imnotweirdjustwriting



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 12:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11313678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotweirdjustwriting/pseuds/Imnotweirdjustwriting
Summary: Spot hides his insecurities till he can't anymore





	5 times Spot didn't let anyone see him cry and 1 time he did

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with projecting shit!
> 
> The title lies he only cries a few times

Spot's pulse pounded a frantic tempo in his ears, his breath speeding up to match. He clenched his hands tightly, his bitten fingernails digging into his palm. They weren't long enough to draw blood, but it still hurt. 

The crowd pressed in around him, suffocating him. It was too much. He couldn't even think of them as his friends. He needed them to move back. He needed space. 

Spot shrunk down, his shoulders hunched in an attempt to give himself more room. He needed to get out. He could feel tears pricking his eyes. 

He couldn't cry. 

He couldn't cry. 

He couldn't cry. 

Spot shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the protests from the newsies. He found the back door, throwing it open and almost falling down the stairs in a rush to get outside. 

The cold air was an instant relief. His lungs heaved for air, drinking it in. He uncurled his fists. His palms stung. He sunk down on the stairs, running his shaking hands through his hair. The tears in his eyes didn't fall. 

No one came to look for him. He knew no one would, that was the point. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. He didn't need them worrying. He just had to calm down. 

He stood, facing the brick wall in front of him. He punched it, his knuckles screaming in protest. The pain helped him focus again. He rubbed his hand on his jeans, smearing the blood where his shirt would cover it up. He could bandage it later. 

He took a shaky breath, breathing in deeply. His was fine. He was okay. 

Spot rolled his shoulders out, shaking his arms. He stepped back to the steps, scrubbing at his eyes. No one would know he was about to cry. He could go back inside, he was okay. 

Spot shoved the door open, away from the cold air and back into the hot press of a crowd. He pasted a grin onto his face, ruffling the hair of his Brooklyn boys and laughing with the Manhattan ones. 

He was okay. 

 

Spot slammed the door to the bathroom shut, locking it with shaking hands. The world was spinning a little bit, pitching sideways as Spot sank to the floor. 

He pressed his hands flat to the cool tile, his back against the wall. 

Tears streaked down his cheeks, burning a path. He let them fall, curling in on himself. 

He couldn't keep doing this. It was too much. Putting on a front for his friends then breaking down in the bathroom. He knew Race was too focused on the movie to check on him. Spot had practically wrenched himself out of Race's arms, stuttering out an excuse about needing to use the bathroom. Race had nodded, his eyes trained on the movie and not on Spot's shaking hands. 

It was better this way. Race wouldn't worry. Spot could keep pretending it was okay. He couldn't burden Race anymore. 

Spot pressed his face against his knees, his tears wetting his jeans. He could push it a few more minutes then he would have to leave. Spot let himself cry for a minute, the tightness in his chest lessening considerably. 

He dragged himself up, clutching the sides of the sink with his hands. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were only a little bit red. He ducked down, splashing water onto his face. He dried his face on a towel, looking at himself again. His eyes looked fine. 

Spot unlocked the door and went back to Race. He climbed onto the couch, settling in Race's arms. He pressed a kiss to Race's cheek, praying he wasn't shaking at all. 

"What did I miss?" He asked quietly, his voice steady. 

Race grinned and launched into an expressive description of what had happened. Spot leaned against his side, calm and steady against him. 

He was okay. 

 

Spot curled his hands tightly around his biceps, his fingertips bruising his skin. He let out a breath, training his eyes on the movie. 

It was too loud. The movie was good, sure, but every gunshot and shout had him cringing. The people around him were fidgeting too much, opening candy, sipping drinks. He couldn't focus with so much movement, so much sound. He needed people to stop, Just long enough so Spot could calm down. 

He couldn't do it. Race had gotten cold and taken his sweatshirt already. Spot was shaking without it, his hands gripping his biceps like that would help. He wanted to leave. He wanted space and silence and light and not the suffocating blackness of the theater. 

He curled tighter in his seat, his chin pressed against his knees. 

He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, his blood rushing in his ears too loudly for him to hear the movie. 

A particularly intense scene played out, Race's hand moving to grip Spot's arm. He almost threw him off. It was too much, he couldn't take Race touching him. Instead he stared at the screen, his eyes stubbornly dry. 

His head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. He pressed his hands to his ears, just enough to remind himself. He couldn't leave them there, people would notice. 

He forced his hands down, forced himself to stop. His eyes burned from not blinking. 

"You okay?" Race asked, even his whisper loud. 

Spot snapped out of it. "I'm okay, yeah."

He didn't want Race to know. He could watch the movie. It wasn't too much.

He was okay. 

 

Spot picked idly at his hands, trying to fake some kind of nonchalance. It wasn't working as well as he hoped. He was shaking, his nails cutting too deep. He winced, quiet enough to not draw attention from the others. He needed to cut them. 

He checked on Race. He was laughing with Jack about something, carefree and unaware. Spot was glad. He couldn't look at him right now. He didn't want to look at anything. 

His attention returned to his hand. He worried at a scab, lifting it away from the barely healed skin. It stung, but that was what he was going for.

He knew if he kept going he would break skin. He thought maybe that was the goal. He hated that that was the goal. 

There wasn't anything to stop him. He didn't know why he was doing it.   
Something had stressed him out and this was calming him down. He couldn't do this. 

He shoved his hand into his pocket, running his nails along the seam of his jeans. He didn't have to scratch. He could calm himself down. 

He was okay. 

 

Spot jerked awake, his breath too fast to be normal. His heart was pounding, beating against his ribcage in an erratic tempo. 

He dragged himself into a sitting position, letting the blankets fall off. He felt too hot. He knew his back was drenched in sweat. Was he afraid? He didn't know. 

Race was sound asleep next to him, his cheek pillowed on his hand. 

Spot felt tears form in his eyes. He couldn't cry. That would wake Race up. He couldn't deal with that. 

He pressed a hand over his mouth to muffle a sob. He couldn't wake Race.   
He curled into a ball, his hands holding onto his legs. He had his face against his knees, desperate to stop crying. 

He was shaking hard enough that the bed moved. At least Race could sleep through anything. 

Spot clutched at himself harder, his hands digging in, probably bruising. He gave himself a few minutes to let go. Hot tears soaked into his pajama pants. It would be dry by morning. His eyes wouldn't be red in the morning. 

He forced himself to sit up. He wiped at his eyes, taking deep breaths. He was done. It was just a nightmare. 

He laid back down, pulling the blankets over his chest. It wasn't real. 

He was okay. 

 

Spot pressed his hands against the refrigerator door, the cold providing a temporary calmness. He forced himself to take deep breaths, forced himself to settle down. 

He was fine. He was okay. 

His breath hitched again. He could feel tears starting to form. He couldn't do that right now. Race was in the other room, he could see. 

Spot leaned forward, his forehead resting between his hands on the fridge. He was fine, he was okay-

He wasn't okay. 

Spot choked on a sob, his hands curling into fists. He couldn't take it. He couldn't calm down. He stayed still, frustrated tears steaming down his face. 

"Spot?" Race asked, his voice a terrible attempt at being light hearted. "What's up?"

Spot spun around. He knew what he looked like. Wide eyed and tear stained. He didn't care that Race was here. He just grabbed him, clinging tightly. He buried his face in Race's chest, muffling another sob. 

Race froze for a second, then his arms wrapped around Spot. One of his hands stroked Spot's hair, smoothing it down. Spot fisted his hands in Race's shirt. He knew he was shaking. Race was holding him tightly enough that it didn't matter. 

"Hey, it's okay" he murmured, his voice quiet in Spot's ear. "I've got you. You're okay."

Spot cried, clutching at Race like he was his lifeline. Race let him cry. He rubbed his back, brushed back his hair, whispered soft reassurances in Spot's ear. You're okay. You're alright. You're enough. 

Spot finally let go of him after what felt like hours. He pulled back, staying in Race's arms. There was a wet blotch on Race's shirt from his tears. 

"I'm sorry," he muttered, swiping at his eyes. "I didn't mean for you to see me like this."

"See you like this? Spot, I want to help you. Whenever I can, however I can." Race's hands were gripping Spot's biceps. He was trying to make eye contact with Spot, but he was looking at the floor. 

"You aren't supposed to see me-" Spot's voice cracked, just a little. He tried again. "You shouldn't see me like this." 

"I don't care how I see you. You can always come to me. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Spot took a shaky breath. "You all just expect so much from me. I can't relax, ever. I can't stop being the tough guy from Brooklyn. If I'm afraid or nervous or overwhelmed I can't say anything. I just have to pretend it's okay." He wiped angrily at a tear that had formed. "It gets hard. I can't control it sometimes, I just have to hide it."

Race moved his hands so he was holding Spot's tightly in his own. "You don't have to hide this. I'm here for you, I promise. I don't care if you aren't who you pretend to be. I love you anyways."

Spot was sobbing now. He didn't know how to respond. He felt pathetic, and weak, crying because he was a little bit stressed. He wiped furiously at his eyes, still not looking at Race. 

"Thank you," he whispered. It felt like the right thing to say. 

Race kissed his forehead, gentler than he usually was. "You're welcome. You can tell me whenever you feel like this, okay? I'll do whatever I can to help you."

Spot nodded, sniffling. He wanted to be done crying. "I will."

Race hugged him tighter. "Want me to make spaghetti?"

Spot laughed for some reason. "Yeah."

Race pulled back, grinning. "You can't be sad after having my mom's homemade spaghetti."

"But you made it?"

Race tapped Spot's forehead. "Stop that. You're gonna love it. You're gonna be okay."

Race was right.

He was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all poor_guys_headisspinning pushed me to finish this and I love them please read their stuff. 
> 
> This was just projecting. I promise I'll post plot soon I have got some stuff that will be fun.


End file.
